Why Are There So Many Behavior Problems?
Why do students get in trouble? Why do some kids never stop getting in trouble? Over the course of time there has been an increase in inappropriate behavior in classrooms. Statistics in the United States report that 7.8 million students are abused on an annual basis and every five hours a student is killed by abuse or neglect (americanspcc.org). These are staggering and shameful numbers. As Larry Brendtro and coauthors state in ReclaimingYouth atRisk: “Parents are too stressed, schools are too impersonal, and the community is too disorganized to fulfill the most basic human need of children to belong” (2002, p. 7).
Many students come to school and can follow directions and perform at a high level. However, a percentage of them are not able to meet classroom expectations and follow directions consistently. There are essentially three reasons why students get in trouble. The first reason is they don’t know any better. If lack of information is the concern, teachers can provide clarity around information and good classroom management. The second reason students get in trouble is because they test limits. Educators know that consistency is critical in providing a strong learning environment. When students test limits, this can be addressed through relationships and structured, consistent classroom management. Third, students get in trouble because they can’t manage their feelings. This is often due to one or more of the following:
Abuse and neglect;
Organic and neurological reasons;
They are unattached or unbonded to significant adults; Complex trauma.
In addition to these significant concerns, some children can struggle due to a lack of consistent boundaries, overindulgence, or entitlement among other environmental circumstances.
When students can’t manage feelings, teachers need to go beyond classroom management. For teachers to feel successful with these students, it will be important for the school to have a strong, philosophical foundation. Additionally, the ability of the staff to collaborate and problem solve student concerns in a manner that supports both the student and the teacher will be necessary.
Most adults can have an overwhelming feeling and then choose an appropriate behavior in response to that feeling. However, children who cannot manage emotions can have feelings and behaviors that are fused together. Some examples of this are:
When a child is mad, they demonstrate behavior that gets them in trouble;
When a child is bored, they become disruptive; When a child is embarrassed, they become defiant.
To ultimately impact change, adults must be able to help children separate their feelings from their negative behaviors.
Stress and trauma are affecting our students at alarming rates. As an example, 7.4% of children aged 3–17 have a diagnosed behavior problem (cdc.gov). Anxiety disorders affect 25.1% of students 13–18 years old (adaa.org). These experiences can change the way an individual’s brain works. As stated in the book MindfulSchool
Communitiesby Christine Mason and coauthors, there are challenges associated with childhood trauma and stress that compromise learning and teaching. By building compassionate, supportive school environments, educators learn to find balance between socialemotional health, well-being, and academic achievement. Schools that are aware of student trauma can increase empathy and support for students while maintaining expectations. The concept of providing support while maintaining expectations describes the BIST Model.
Pick Your Battles … NOT
When identifying students with chronic behavior, often the frequency of the behavior is a greater indicator of concern than the severity of behavior. In other words, chronic behavior does not always mean the intensity of the behavior. Teachers must look at how frequently the behavior is occurring. A “chronic kid” is a student who doesn’t just get in trouble; rather they don’tstopgetting in trouble. Often when behaviors are more covert and do not stop the learning of other students, teachers have been taught to ignore or “pick your battles.” However, when a student does something that is not “OK” and the adult ignores the behavior, it is silent permission to continue that behavior. It is important that teachers learn to “pick their timing” of when to address the behavior as opposed to not addressing it at all.
Here are some guidelines to follow with students:
If the behavior won’t work on the job, it won’t work in our school system.
“Pick your timing” over “pick your battles.”
A teacher’s job is to be as demanding of students behaviorally as they are of them academically. Would a teacher allow a student to learn that 25 + 25 = 51? Would the teacher say “That is close enough”? When students make academic mistakes, teachers feel an obligation to address them. In fact, if a teacher did not address the minor academic mistakes, they would be viewed as failing the student. It becomes critical that teachers have the same mindset when addressing behavioral mistakes. When a school community can be demanding and set high behavioral standards, students are able to achieve at a higher level. When students achieve at a higher level, they have increased confidence and the result is frequently increased effort.
Behaviors Must Be Taught
Think back to the reasons students can’t manage feelings (abuse and neglect, organic and neurological reasons, being unattached or unbonded to significant adults, complex trauma, environmental circumstances). It is no wonder some students misbehave. When identifying chronic behaviors, the adult must go beneath the behavior and connect it to one or more missing skills. Which are:
1. I cannot experience an uncomfortable or overwhelming feeling without getting in trouble.
2. I cannot be OK if others are not OK.
3. I cannot do something when I don’t want to, or it is hard.
If teachers can identify repetitive behaviors and connect them to a missing skill it can become a teachable attribute. By connecting student behavior to a life skill, two things can be accomplished:
1. Adults can be less emotional about misbehavior. When teachers perceive mistakes as behavior, it can frequently feel personal and as if the teacher has done something wrong. This can often cause the adults to feel emotional and sometimes defeated by that behavior. An example could be when a student gets mad and throws a book. If the teacher is focused solely on the poor behavior instead of the missing skill, frustration and inadequacy can come into play. However, if the adult can identify that this student does not know how to manage emotions in a productive manner, then there is a skill that can be taught.
2. Adults can be solution based and able to teach a new skill. By seeing behavioral mistakes as a missing skill as opposed to a choice, adults can narrow all behaviors down to three missing skills. This clarifies what must be taught. The focus can be on the solution of how to teach the individual student the skill they are missing.
This concept can shift the responsibility to a student’s missing skill as opposed to a teacher’s inadequacy. Teachers can reinstate hope for children by helping them recognize their struggle is about a missing skill as opposed to a character flaw. Additionally, this provides hope that change of behavior can be achieved through teaching skills. It is simply taking a teacher’s expertise (teaching) and putting it into the area of behavior. It goes beyond modifying behavior to creating long-term change.
The missing skills are the foundation for the Three Goals for Life:
1. I can make good choices even if I am mad (or have an overwhelming feeling).
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to break a path. There were only two cows in the shed. Fanny milked them both, and pulled down hay for them from the rack above. There was a pump in the corner of the shed, and Fanny pumped water for the cows, and carried a pailful to the old mare in the stable. She was obliged to make two journeys to the house with her pails, and she came in from the last looking very serious indeed. When she had taken off her wraps and put away her milk, she stood at the window for a long time, and when she turned away there were tears in her eyes."
"'I don't believe father and mother can get home to-night,' said she, sorrowfully. 'I am afraid they will be smothered in the drifts. And what shall I do if I have to stay here all night alone?'"
"These thoughts were too much to bear quietly. Fanny threw herself down on the floor, with her head in a chair, and cried bitterly. The cat and the dog came round her as if to ask what was the matter. Fanny put her arm round the dog's neck."
"'Oh, poor old Bose!' she sobbed. 'Where do you think your master and mistress are now?'"
"Bose looked wistfully at her and licked her face, but he could give her no other comfort. Presently Fanny grew more quiet, and she might have been heard murmuring softly to herself. Fanny was praying—begging her Father in heaven to watch over her father and mother and bring them safe home, and to take care of her while she was there alone, so far from neighbors. As she prayed, she grew more composed and her sobs ceased; and when she rose her face was quiet and even cheerful. She made up the fire and lighted a candle. Then bringing the Prayer-book from the corner-stand, she read aloud the psalms for the day, both morning and evening, finding great comfort in the repeated declaration that 'His mercy endureth forever!' Then she began to think what she had better do next."
"'I will bring in plenty of wood from the shed, so that I need not have to go out in the cold any more.'"
"This was soon done. Fanny brought in plenty of light wood such as she could manage. The fire had been made up in the morning with a mighty back-log, back-stick, and fore-stick, all as large as good-sized trees. Fanny piled up the fuel, putting in plenty of pine-knots to make a cheerful blaze, and swept up the hearth clean. Then she brought in more wood, enough to last all night."
"'I suppose I had better get the supper,' said she, sighing; 'though I am afraid they will not be here to eat it.'"
"There was at least some comfort to be found in keeping busy, and Fanny almost forgot her trouble in setting the table neatly, frying a chicken, which she found all prepared for cooking in the pantry, and getting ready a nice hot supper. When everything was done, she covered up all her dishes warmly on the hearth, set the light on a little stand in the chimney-corner, propped up her favorite volume of Bishop Heber's Journal, and set resolutely to knit and read till her father and mother should come. The clock struck the hours and halfhours—six—seven—eight—nine—ten—and still nobody came, and no sound was heard outside but the shrill howling and deep roar of the wind, and the click of the snow as it was blown against the glass. At last Fanny laid down her knitting, and closed her book."
"'There is no use in my sitting up any longer,' said she to herself. 'I remember what father said to me the last thing: "If anything happens that we do not come home, put your trust in God, and go to bed in peace." I will just go over the house to see that all is right, and then say my prayers and go to bed.'"
"She accordingly took up her candle, and calling Bose to go with her —not that she was afraid, but because she liked his company—she went into every room in the house, seeing that the windows and doors were fast and all things in order. As she came down and went into the front room—the keeping room, as it was usually called, she was startled to see how high the snow was piled against the front windows of the house."
"'It must be drifting in between the house and the ledge, as it did once when I was a little girl,' thought Fanny. 'Father will have a fine time shovelling it away.'"
"Seeing that all was safe, she arranged the fire so as to insure its keeping, set everything in order for the night, eat a little supper herself, and fed the cat and dog. Then she lighted a small oil-lamp which her mother used when she wished to keep a light all night, and set it in a safe place. She had made up her mind to sleep downstairs in the small room which opened out of the kitchen—John's room, as it was still called—instead of going upstairs. By the time she had finished all her preparations, it was eleven o'clock—later than she had ever sat up in her life before."
"'How nice and comfortable it all looks!' she thought, surveying the large kitchen. 'Now, if I only knew that dear father and mother were safe, I would not much mind having to stay alone. The Rockville road is not like this; there are a great many houses on it, so that if they were stopped by the drifts they would have some place to stay all night. But very likely they did not leave Rockville at all.'"
"Fanny said her prayers as usual, asking earnestly that her father and mother might be taken care of and brought safely home. As she prayed she seemed to feel as though her Saviour was very near her in her solitude. She remembered all those precious words: I will never leave thee nor forsake thee; 'Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world;' 'I will not leave you comfortless, I will come to you;' and God gave her grace to believe in His promises and to lean upon His mercy, which endureth forever. When she rose up, she felt herself no longer alone."
"Fanny had thought she should lie awake all night, but instead of that her head had hardly touched the pillow before she fell asleep. She slept long and soundly, but when she awoke there was no sign of daylight. All was dark and still. She did not even hear the roaring of the wind, and she thought the storm must be over. Presently the clock begun to strike, and she counted the strokes: one-two-threefour-five—six—seven—eight—and there it stopped. What could it
mean? Was the clock wrong? Had it run down? It struck eleven before she went to bed, she was quite sure. She jumped up and ran out into the kitchen. There was no light outside, but the lamp was still burning. Fanny caught it up and looked at the clock. Eight o'clock, sure enough. The sun ought to be up and shining, and here it was still dark night! What could have happened?"
"Fanny went to the window and put up the curtain. She could not see anything till she held the lamp close to the glass. Then the truth flashed upon her all at once. She was snowed up. The house was buried in snow. She went into the front room, and then upstairs. All the same. A solid wall of snow was banked up against the panes. Not even from the upper windows could she see a ray of light. She was buried alive."
"Fanny stood for a few minutes as if stunned by the greatness of the calamity which had overtaken her. What was she to do? What would become of her? Would she be left to starve to death there in the snow? Would some one come before it was too late?"
"What would become of the cattle—the cows and sheep in their sheds, the mare in the barn? She could think of nothing at first, and she returned to the kitchen, and threw herself on the settee in a kind of stunned and stupid despair."
"But Fanny did not lie there long. She had naturally a hopeful and resolute disposition, and she had been trained in habits of thoughtfulness and presence of mind. She roused herself, and began to consider what she had better do."
"'There is no sort of use in my trying to get out, even to the barn,' she reflected. 'I should be smothered in the snow. So the cattle and the chickens must take their chance. I am glad I pulled down plenty of hay for them last night. But now about myself. I suppose it may be two or three days before any one can get up here, and I had better look round and see what I have to live upon. Oh, if Miss Gibson had only come up as she promised! But after all, it would be only one
more in trouble. The first thing to do is to bring in plenty of wood. No, that is not the first thing, either.'"
"Fanny knelt down and said her prayers. Then she quickly dressed herself, and, going out into the shed, she soon brought in plenty of wood, enough to last the whole day through, and piled it up in one corner out of the way. As she went out the third time, she heard a cracking sound in the roof of the shed; and looking up, she saw that some of the boards were bent down so that the snow came in between them."
"'If the shed should fall in, I would be rather badly off,' said she. 'I think I had better bring in all the wood I am likely to want.'"
"This was very sensible in Fanny. Fuel is generally the first thing to be looked to in such cases. She brought in nearly all the cut wood in the shed, and a great store of pine-knots. Then she began to look into the state of her provisions. No fear there. She had enough of flour, meal, and butter to last six weeks, besides the barrels of beef and pork in the cellar, and the chickens and turkey which had been got ready for the Thanksgiving dinner. As she looked at them she realized for the first time that this was Thanksgiving day—the day on which all New England bred or descended folks gather together as many of their families as are within reach, that they may rejoice together before the Lord, they, their sons and daughters, in all the good which the Lord has done unto them. Thanksgiving day!—And here she was alone and buried in the snow, while her father and mother were she did not know where."
Christmas at Cedar Hill.
"But I am not going to cry."
"'But I am not going to cry,' said Fanny aloud, resolutely brushing the tears from her eyes. 'If I once begin, I shall never know when to stop. I shall make my head ache, and then I shall be good for nothing.'"
"Determinedly she wiped her eyes and choked down her sobs. She looked into the candle box. It was half full of nice mould candles, and there was, besides, a jug of oil."
"'Well,' said Fanny, as she concluded her survey, 'I don't see that I need be extra careful of anything but wood, and I don't think I shall get out of that very soon. If father and mother are alive, they will be coming to look for me before long. Then they must know down at Mr. Morrell's that I am here alone, because father told Miss Gibson, and I should think they would see that I don't suffer. At any rate there is One who knows all about it, and while He cares for me, no real harm
can come to me. Oh, I never knew before how good it was to trust in Him!'"
"Fanny got her breakfast and washed all her dishes nicely. When the necessary work was done, she began to consider how she should spend the day. It was Thanksgiving day—a time set apart by the Church and the State is which to praise the Lord and rejoice before Him for all His goodness during the year. Fanny know what her duty was. She loved the services of the Church dearly, and she had always been taught that it was not only her duty, but a precious privilege, to join with heart and voice in the prayers and praises of God's people; and she felt comforted at the thought that she could still join with them, though she was alone on the snowy hill-top."
"When church time came, she got out the great Bible and Prayerbook and laid them on the table. Then she took down one volume of a set of sermons, out of which her father often read when they did not go either to Rockville or to the Corners on a Sunday. She selected a discourse which seemed to her suitable to the occasion, and put in a mark."
"Then, as the clock struck the hour of church time, she opened her Prayer-book and slowly and reverently read the service. She had never prayed more earnestly in all her life than she did at this time; and she realized more than she had ever done the meaning of those words in the Creed, 'The Communion of Saints.' She felt herself a member of the Church, and she found great comfort in the feeling. She was but a little girl twelve years; she had never taken up much room in the world, and if she died hardly any one besides her father and mother would miss her very much; and yet she was, by her baptism, 'A member of Christ, a child of God, and an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven.' She was, in some mysterious way, one with Christ, and through Him with all his faithful people. How then could she ever be really alone?"
"Fanny read the sermon she had selected, and though she did not understand all of it, she found many things both pleasant and profitable. When she had finished her services, she sat for some
time singing the psalms and hymns in the Prayer-book, and others which she had learned down in the village. She had a sweet voice, and always took great pleasure in singing. If anything happened to make her angry or sad, she would run away by herself and sing; and she seldom failed to regain her tranquillity in this way."
"'I must get a nice dinner,' said Fanny, when noon came. 'It would not be like Thanksgiving unless I did.'"
"After dinner, Fanny began to think what she should do next. She did not feel quite so cheerful as she had done in the morning. The darkness and the loneliness began to tell upon her spirits. Then, too, it was so terribly still. Fanny felt as though even the roaring of the wind would be a relief; but she could not hear a breath. There was only the ticking of the clock, the burning of the fire, and the noises made by the kittens in playing about the floor. Every now and then Fanny would feel sure that she heard people digging in the snow, and she would strain her ears to the utmost, only to be disappointed again. The time wore on very slowly, and at last the clock struck four."
"'I cannot stand this,' said Fanny, throwing down the book she was in vain trying to read. 'I must have something to do. I believe I will get out my spinning wheel. I hope it will not be doing wrong. I feel as if I should be crazy unless I did something.'"
"This again was wise in the little girl. There is nothing so good as strenuous employment to keep the mind healthy under circumstances of excitement and suspense. Fanny worked hard at her spinning, taking the greatest pains with her thread, till eight o'clock, when she took her supper, fed the dog and cat, and then went to bed."
"Fanny's danger was much more serious than she had any notion of. A great weight of snow had by this time gathered on the house, which was what is called gambrel-roofed—that is to say, it was two stories high in front and sloped down to one behind. A modern-built house would most likely have been crushed at once, but the old red
farm-house was solidly framed with stout oak timbers, three times as thick as any we think of using nowadays, and it stood out bravely as yet."
"Fanny did not rest as soundly this night as the night before. She was troubled with bad dreams, from which she started affright, calling for her mother, and crying when she remembered that that mother was far away, if indeed she were alive. It was dreadful to wake in the morning from a dream of summer and green trees, and David walking with her to school, and then to realize it all—the snow above and around, the loneliness and uncertainty. Fanny would have been glad to sleep till noon, but that was impossible."
"So she got up, and after she had finished her breakfast she set to spinning with all her might. She now kept two candles lighted, the place seemed so dismal. Bose was growing very uneasy. He whined and cried to go out, and behaved so strangely that Fanny was half afraid of him."
"The day wore on slowly, and night came again, and yet she was alone."
"For three whole days, she had not seen the face of a human being. Her firewood was getting low, too. She hardly dared to go into the shed for more, and yet she was afraid her fire would go out unless she got a larger stick. At last she determined to venture. She found her sled in one corner, and, getting a pretty good-sized log on it, she managed to drag it into the kitchen. She had done this three times and was going out again, when Bose sprang between her and the door, and would not allow her to pass, even growling and taking hold of her dress with his teeth when she tried to push him out of the way. At that moment, the shed fell in with a great crash. But for the dog, Fanny would have been buried in its ruins."
"As it was, the fall of the shed was both alarming and inconvenient. She could get no more wood and no more well-water; and what if the roof to the home should fall in as that of the shed had done! She
went up into the garret to see if she could see any signs of its yielding, but all stood firm as yet."
"And now Fanny made a great discovery. There was a little projecting window, such as is sometimes called a dormer window, high in the roof, looking towards the east, and through this window Fanny could see a little glimpse of daylight. She stood looking at it in a kind of ecstasy, and as she gazed a ray of clear sunshine shot through it and glanced upon the great old chimney and the blackened beams and boards of the roof. It seemed to the poor little girl like a visible angel messenger from her Father in heaven. She clasped her hands and burst into joyful tears, while she fell upon her knees and thanked God that at least the dreadful storm was over."
"It was long before she could tear herself from the sight of that blessed light; but at last, finding herself growing chilly, she descended to the kitchen, and, having carefully made up her fire, she began to spin once more, singing as she drew out her long threads and speaking cheerfully now and then to the cat and dog."
"Presently she stopped her wheel, and went to get the reel on which to wind the yarn she had spun. As she set it down, Bose sprang up, and began to bark and howl furiously, at the same time scratching violently at the door. With some trouble, Fanny quieted him for a moment, and listened as well as her beating heart would let her. There was certainly something moving outside—a muffled sound of digging. Fanny even thought she could distinguish voices. She flew to the garret, and piled one box on another, lifting easily in her excitement a chest she could hardly have moved at another time. A tall, slender pole stood in the corner. She pulled off her pink apron and tied it on the pole for a flag. Then finding that she could not move the window, she broke the glass, and, thrusting the pole through it, she waved it about. Oh, joyful sound! Her signal was answered by a shout. She was saved!"
"We must now go back to Mr. Morrell's house at the Corners. After the storm came on, Jake began to be rather uneasy about the consequences of his falsehood. He tried to comfort himself by
thinking that after all Fanny very likely had gone with her father and mother, and was safe in Rockville all the time; but still the thought would haunt him that Fanny was alone in the house on the hill, and that if anything happened to her he would be answerable."
"'Bolt's folks will hardly get home to-night,' remarked Mrs. Morrell, as her husband came in with Jake from foddering the cattle and milking the cows."
"'If they have any sense at all, they won't try!' replied Mr. Morrell. 'It is quite providential, as it turns out that Fanny went with them, and that Eunice did not go up there. How is she?'"
"'Pretty considerable sick,' replied Mrs. Morrell. 'She has got a real bad cold. Did Captain Bolt say anything about what time he should be back, Jake?'"
"'No,' replied Jake."
"'It must have been a real sudden start, taking Fanny,' continued Mrs. Morrell. 'He didn't know anything about it when he stopped here on his way to the post-office. Maybe there is something going on in their church.'"
"'I shouldn't wonder; and Bolt might have got notice of it when he went to the post-office. Where did you see them, Jake?'"
"'Right up here by the Corners,' answered Jake, keeping as much out of sight as he could."
"'They must have taken an early start to get down to the Corners by that time.'"
"'Like enough they did start early just on purpose to let Eunice know, and calculated to take her up on the way back,' remarked Mrs. Morrell. 'Didn't they say anything about it, Jake?'"
"'I didn't hear it, if they did,' replied Jake. 'Bolt said something just as he was driving off, but I didn't understand what it was.'"
"'I dare say you forgot half your message,' said his aunt. 'Some one must try and get up the hill early in the morning, and see what becomes of the critters. The cows will be spoiled.'"
"But the next morning and the whole of the next day there was no stirring out. The storm raged so fiercely that it was not thought worth while to open the meeting-house, as no one could come who did not live close by. Many a family in the village sat down three or four in number to the dinner which had been prepared for twelve or fifteen. It was the dullest Thanksgiving ever known."
"The family at Mr. Morrell's were round the fire at early twilight, when a knock came at the door. Mr. Morrell opened it, and there stood a man covered from head to foot with snow."
"'Come in, stranger, come in to the fire,' said Mr. Morrell."
"The stranger walked in, after shaking off as much as possible of the clinging snow."
"'So you don't know me, Mr. Morrell,' said he, with a kind of sad smile."
"'I ought to, I dare say, and your voice sounds kind of natural too,' said Mr. Morrell, looking closely him."
"'Good gracious, husband, don't you see!' exclaimed Mrs. Morrell, springing forward. 'It's David—David Bolt. My goodness sakes alive, man, where did you come from?'"
"'From Whitehall, this time,' said David, submitting to be kissed by the good woman as if he had been still the little boy who used to sit on her lap. 'I started from there early this morning, and got a ride as far as Daucey's. I have footed it from there, and tough work it has been. But I felt somehow as if I must get home to-night after I heard
from Daucey that the old folks were alive and well. But coming by and seeing your windows so bright, I thought I would drop in and rest before I went up the hill. I expect it will be a tough pull, though.'"
"'You wont stir another peg this night,' said Mr. Morrell, positively. 'Your folks all went to Rockville yesterday before the storm began, and they can't have got home yet. You just stay here to-night, and in the morning early, if it clears off, we will go up and see what has become of the cattle.'"
"With some difficulty David was persuaded to stay all night at the Corners. The next morning, the storm was as bad as ever, and there was no possibility of stirring. But on Saturday morning, the snow had ceased falling, the wind went down, and the sun shone bright and clear. In every direction the roads were blocked up, and it took two hours' work of all the horses and ox teams in the village to clear a path from the store to the meeting-house. David Bolt was enthusiastically welcomed by all his old friends in the village, and invited to more dinners than he could have eaten in two weeks. Just as the long train of teams reached the post-office, two men on horseback came plunging through the drifts from the direction of Rockville."
"'Hurrah! Here's Captain Bolt! Here's your father, David!' shouted the men and boys."
"But Captain Bolt did not seem to heed their words. He rode into the midst of the group, and, throwing himself from his horse, exclaimed:"
"'For the Lord's sake, neighbors, do any of you know anything about my Fanny?'"
"'Fanny!' exclaimed Mr. Morrell, in wonder. 'Why, didn't Fanny go with you? Jake said she did.'"
"'No, no, I never thought of taking her. I thought Miss Gibson was going up there, and we should be home by night. Oh, what has become of those poor girls all this time!'"
"'Eunice is at our house. She is sick with a cold,' said Mr. Morrell. 'Then that poor dear girl has been there alone! Jake, you villain, did not you tell me that you saw Fanny with her father?'"
"But Jake had shrunk away from the crowd and disappeared at the first sight of Captain Bolt."
"'Cheer up, captain,' said Mr. Morrell, kindly. 'I hope all will be well. And see here, who is this waiting to speak to you?'"
"'David—no! Yes, it is! The Lord bless you, my son! Praised be His name who has brought you again from the dead! But oh, David, your poor little sister!'"
"Mr. Lee, the Congregational minister, had been helping his parishioners to break the roads, and he now sprang upon his horse and waved his hat, the wind blowing his white locks about his face."
"'Neighbors and friends,' he said, in a voice that all could hear, 'Captain Bolt's little daughter has been left entirely alone in their house for three days and nights. Let us leave our own concerns and go at once to her rescue!'"
"'Hurrah for Bolt's Hill!' shouted the big blacksmith; and then with a sudden break in his voice: 'Poor dear little young one, all alone in that lonesome place! Hurry up, neighbors. Just think if it was your own child, and work with a will.'"
"It took an hour to reach the turn in the road where the path branched off ''cross lots' to Bolt's Hill. As they reached it and looked up, a universal groan burst from the party. Nothing could be seen of the red house. It was one long unbroken sweep of snow from the top of the ledge almost down to the brook."
"'The Lord have mercy on her!' said Mr. Morrell. 'I'm afraid the house has fallen in, and it is all over.'"
"'No, no! Keep up courage, father,' exclaimed David."
"A tall tree stood just at the turn. The active sailor was at the top in a moment, looking with eager eyes towards the place where the house should have been. There was a moment's silence and suspense."
"'Hurrah, father, I see a smoke!' exclaimed David. 'I see the top of the old chimney, and there is a fire!'"
"'Hurrah!' burst from the crowd. And in a moment they were all pushing with frantic haste towards the hill. They had succeeded in breaking a path as far as the bars which led from the barn-yard into the pasture, and were digging their way towards the house, when they saw the pole with Fanny's red flag thrust out of the garret window. This gave them new courage, and in twenty minutes' time, Fanny was in the arms of her father."
"'Where is mother?' were Fanny's first words."
"'Safe and sound, my dear. We got as far as the White Tavern on our way home, and there we have been ever since. You may guess we have been uneasy enough about you, even when we thought you had Miss Gibson with you. We never guessed that you would be here alone. But, Fanny, you do not speak to David?'"
"'David!' said Fanny, starting."
"'Yes, David! I have hardly spoken to him myself: I have been so troubled about you. But here he is once more, safe and sound, thank God!'"
"Fanny started back, looked for a moment with wild, wide open eyes at the bearded figure which approached her, and put out her hand with an uncertain motion as if to keep him off. Then sight and sense failed her. The next she knew she was lying on the settee, and a kind motherly voice said:"
"'She is coming to herself. Why, Fanny! Look up, dear.'"
"She opened her eyes, and there was good Mrs. Morrell bending over her, and David kneeling by her side. Mrs. Morrell, thinking that Fanny might very likely be ill, had borrowed the minister's cutter, and she and Mrs. Lee had driven up in the wake of the road-breakers."
"That evening Thanksgiving day was kept in earnest, if rather late, at Bolt's Hill. Some one had ridden off at once to the White Tavern to relieve the anxiety of Mrs. Bolt; and by sunset the whole family were assembled in the red house, together with the minister's family and the doctor's, Mr. and Mrs. Morrell, and Eunice Gibson, who had come up, bringing with them a great supply of cakes, pies, biscuits, and all sorts of good things. Fanny, looking pale and feeble with the excitement and fatigue she had gone through, was bolstered up in one corner of the sofa; while between her and his mother sat David, holding a hand of each and relating his adventures."
"He had indeed gone down with the unlucky ship, but had risen again and obtained possession of a part of the wreck. On this, he had floated for a week, until, when almost starved, he had been taken up by a canoe full of savages. Knowing how many of the islanders in the Pacific are cannibals, David expected nothing but that he should be killed and eaten, or at least reduced to the condition of a slave. What, then, was his surprise and delight to find himself among Christian men, some of whom could even speak a few words of English. They had been converted by some of the missionaries which the Christianized islanders are constantly sending out at the risk of their lives to preach the glad tidings of the Gospel among the heathen."
"With these good-natured people David lived five years in great comfort and consideration, his chief trouble being home-sickness. He had the satisfaction of teaching the islanders many useful arts, and of giving them instruction in the truths of the Gospel. At the end of that time, an English ship touched at the island for water, and in her David obtained a passage to Liverpool, from which place he had no difficulty in working his way home."
"'And now you are home, I hope you will stay,' said Mr. Morrell. 'I should think you had had enough of the sea.'"
"'I don't say anything about that,' said David. 'Salt water comes pretty natural to us Bolts. I believe, if father would confess it, he would like to find himself on blue water once more.'"
"'I won't deny but I do have a hankering after it now and then,' said Captain Bolt, laughing; 'but I am pretty well contented to sit in the chimney-corner to-night.'"
"In the course of two or three days Fanny was quite well again. The cows and the old mare suffered somewhat from their long fast, but with care they soon recovered. Nobody was very long the worse for 'the great drift on Bolt's Hill' but Jake Penniman. Mr. Morrell was an upright man, who hated lies in every shape, and had some oldfashioned notions of discipline. The first misfortune which befell Jake was a sound horse-whipping. But a still sorer punishment was the universal contempt and coldness with which he was treated. Not one of the village boys would speak to him or play with him; the girls turned up their noses, and talked about cowards and about poor dear Fanny Bolt whenever he made his appearance. Even Jake's dull nature was roused by this treatment. He found himself more miserable than he had ever been in his life, and he thought seriously of running away."
"'I really don't know what to do with Jake,' said Mr. Morrell to Captain Bolt one day. 'He does have a hard time in the village, that's a fact. I don't think I know how to make any one work. I am no hand to drive. It is so much easier to take hold and do things myself than it is to follow Jake round and make him do them. Wife says I am to blame for a good deal of the boy's laziness, and I don't know but she is right.'"
"'Suppose you let Jake come to me for the rest of the winter,' said Captain Bolt, after a little consideration. 'I believe I am a pretty good hand to drive, at least my boys always thought so; and I will see if I can do anything for Jake.'"
"'Well, Captain Bolt, if you ain't a Christian man, I wouldn't say so,' said Mr. Morrell. 'I shouldn't suppose you could bear the sight of the boy.'"
"'Forgive and forget, neighbor. I should be ashamed to bear malice against a boy like that; and if I can do him any good, I am sure I am very willing to try. I am an old sea captain, you know, and used to having my own way, and maybe Jake will be the better for a change. I will talk with my wife and let you know.'"
"At first Jake did not very well like the notion of going up to Bolt's Hill; but his admiration of David, the returned sailor, and his desire to get away from the village, prevailed. For a while he found his life very irksome. Captain Bolt did not do after him what he left half-finished. He simply made Jake do it over again—twenty times, if necessary. So with his lessons. Jake had never perfectly learned the multiplication table. He now learned it in a day, simply because he was informed that he would have no supper till he did. He learned more in four months than he had done before in all his life, and really turned out quite an average sort of man."
CHAPTER VI.
AGATHA'S STORY.
"IT is growing late," remarked the squire. "Miss Hope, will you tell us a story?"
"I think I must be excused," said Miss Hope, smiling. "I am no storyteller; but I will, if you please, sing you a song instead."
"Oh, how nice!" exclaimed Annie, hastening to open the piano. "I do love music, and our piano hardly ever gets used nowadays."
"Don't you play?" asked Agatha.
"No; only a little by ear. I am going to take lessons as soon as grandfather can find a lady to live in the house and teach me. Hush, Miss Hope is ready to begin."
Miss Hope sang two or three songs which pleased every one, for her voice was very sweet and her pronunciation clear and distinct. Then she played some lively waltzes and marches for the children.
"Oh, how charming!" said Annie, who had hardly dared to breathe while the music was going on. "I wish Miss Hope would live here and give me lessons."
"Perhaps Miss Hope would not care to give lessons," said the old lady, seeing that she colored a little.
"I should be very glad to do so," replied Miss Hope, gently and modestly. "I have lately lost my only earthly dependence, and shall be obliged henceforth to work for my living in some way."
"I should say you were well qualified both to teach music and to sing in a church choir," remarked the clergyman. "Your voice and style are admirable."
"I have always sung in church," said Miss Hope; "but I never once thought of being paid for it. I was glad to give my services; since I had little else to give."
The clergyman smiled approvingly. "You are quite right, my dear Miss Hope. I wish more people were moved by the same spirit. I have no doubt you will succeed in whatever you undertake."
The squire and the old lady exchanged meaning glances.
"It wears late," said the squire once more, "and we have not yet heard from any of these young people. I suggest that they should draw lots, and the one upon whom the lot falls shall relate the story of his or her own life."
This proposal met with universal approbation. Half a dozen colored marbles and one white one were put into the old lady's knitting bag, and the children drew in turn. On examination it was found that Agatha held the white marble.
"I am glad Agatha has drawn it," said Edward. "She has had more adventures than any of us."
"I am not sure that I can make the story very interesting," said Agatha, modestly; "but I will try to do my best. You may call my story, if you please:"
"THE INDIAN ORPHAN."
